The marquis made her an elaborate bow, and Spenser Churchill clapped his fat hands softly.
“Good—very good, dear lady! I must remember that; I must, indeed! So truly witty.”
“So truly vulgar, you mean,” she said; “but I was following the marquis’ suit.”
The marquis made her another bow.
“This is quite refreshing,” he said, his thin upper lip curling scornfully. “And now that we have exchanged civilities, perhaps Churchill will tell us what is to happen. Is Cecil to come back and marry this pure and innocent ballet girl?”
“Actress, actress, dear marquis,” cooed Spenser Churchill, folding his hands, and smiling with his head on one side. “If you appeal to me, I am afraid I must be the bearer of bad news.”
“Bad news! He is married already?” exclaimed Lady Grace, rising and confronting him with white face and furious eyes.
Spenser Churchill chuckled at her alarm, then, with his head a little more on one side, murmured:
“No, no! I am sorry to say there is a little hitch—ahem—the fact is the engagement is broken off.”
“Broken off?” exclaimed Lady Grace, and her face crimsoned as she leaned forward, with scarcely repressed eagerness.